Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings;

Thy better portion trace;

Rise, from transitory things,

Toward heaven, thy native place.

Sun, and moon, and stars decay;

Time shall soon this earth remove;

Rise, my soul, and haste away

To seats prepared above!

2 Rivers to the ocean run,

Nor stay in all their course;

Fire ascending seeks the sun;

Both speed them to their source:

So a soul that’s born of God

Pants to view his glorious face,

Upward tends to his abode,

To rest in his embrace.

3 Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn;

Press onward to the prize;

Soon your Saviour will return

Triumphant in the skies:

Yet a season, and you know

Happy entrance will be given,

All your sorrows left below,

And earth exchanged for heaven.